


Crescendo

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hanzo playing a violin because I c a n, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: It turns out that Hanzo plays the violin, and McCree can't get that out of his head.





	Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> Crescendo: to increase in loudness or intensity; commonly used in music to indicate an increase in volume. 
> 
> In which Hanzo plays the violin. Because I like Hanzo, and I like violins. 
> 
> Originally meant to be a drabble based on a piece of art on Tumblr. It became six times longer than intended, but the inspiration remains: http://alorryblue.tumblr.com/post/164418339524/hi-so-i-dont-know-if-youre-gonna-wanna-draw

 

McCree is outside on the skybridge, enjoying the crisp night air and a cigarillo, when he first hears the sound: the faint, delicate tones of a violin, carried to him on the sea breeze. 

He perks up and tilts his head toward the sound, uncertain if it is real or imagined. Now that he’s aware of it, though, he can hear it consistently. It is a delicate melody that he does not recognize, trickling through the jagged cliffs surrounding the base--to the east, if he’s right, although it is difficult to tell from this distance. 

He spends a minute listening to the music. To his knowledge, there is no one on the base who plays the violin. It’s possible, of course, that someone does and he simply doesn’t know it. Lucio would be the most likely, with his musical career, or perhaps another one of the newer recruits. It definitely seems like something Symmetra woman would do, but it could be someone like Hana or even Zenyatta. Or maybe someone from the old Overwatch learned after the team was disbanded, and brought their newfound hobby back to the Recall.

It takes little effort for curiosity to win him over. McCree bites his cigarillo between his teeth, stands up straight, stretches his arms behind his back with an indulgent groan, and ambles off toward the source of the sound.

It doesn’t take long for him to confirm that the violin is indeed coming from one of the lower cliffs around the Watchpoint. He follows the rugged path up a couple hundred feet, crunching through gravel and patchy, sparse grass. It is farther than he realized, and by the time he is nearing the summit, he is breathing hard and regretting his choices.

Finally, at the top of the cliff, he catches sight of a darkened silhouette standing near the edge--one he would recognize anywhere as Hanzo.

Hanzo has his back to the path, facing the sea waters below. He is still playing, apparently unaware of McCree’s arrival. McCree tiptoes up the rest of the path until he is fifteen or so feet away, and there he pauses to watch. 

The sight is unlike anything he has ever seen.

Hanzo’s hands seem just as at home on the violin as they are with a bow and arrow, delicate and sure, never fumbling. He plays through the piece without any sheet music to be seen. Hanzo’s eyes are closed, and his lips are upturned in a faint, but undeniable, smile. The dim moonlight overhead casts a halo around the edges of his silhouette, soft and ethereal. McCree is spellbound.

McCree likes to think he knows Hanzo pretty well. They’ve always gotten along, for the most part, and McCree quickly recognized a kindred spirit in the other man--a vigilante on the run, atoning for his past and struggling with his inner demons. And if his fondness for Hanzo happens to run just this side of not-quite-platonic, well, that’s his own little crush to nurture. 

This, however. This was something brand new, something entirely unlike what he’s come to expect from Hanzo. Despite the piercings and the haircut, Hanzo’s never struck anyone as a particularly artistic type, placing more value in his weapons and training than in a craft. Yet here he is, at the edge of the cliff by the gently rolling sea, drawing a bittersweet melody from the violin with every movement, and looking every part the dramatic musician from a romantic film.

Hanzo turns slightly as he plays, and he bows out one last long note with a gentle, heartbreaking vibrato. His smile widens almost imperceptibly as the last sound fades away into the open air. McCree’s heart thumps against his sternum, and he mouths a silent “ _ Wow _ ” to himself.

Then Hanzo opens his eyes, and his gaze immediately locks on McCree. That content, wistful look is immediately gone, replaced with a glare.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “How long have you been standing there?”

McCree holds up in his hands in self-defense. “Just a minute or two,” he says. “Sorry, partner, didn’t mean to startle you. I heard music while I was havin’ a smoke and thought I’d come see who it was.”

Hanzo’s expression softens, but he still looks annoyed. “You realize there was probably a reason that I was up here alone,” he says.

“Well, yeah, but I mean--” McCree shakes his head and starts again, unable to contain the awe in his voice as he says, “That was amazin’. I thought I was good on my old six-string, but that was somethin’ else. I couldn’t help stopping for a listen.”

Even in the dim light, McCree can see the faint blush that rises to Hanzo’s cheeks. “Thank you,” he murmurs, gaze on the violin instead of on McCree. 

“Have you always known how to play? I didn’t think you were a real music type.”

“Since I was a boy. Father believed we should practice the arts as well as other skills. Genji never took to it, but it was one of the few things I enjoyed.”

“I ain’t ever seen you play around here.”

“I have not played for ten years or so.”

“Is that because of . . . ?”

Hanzo chuckles. “Because of Genji? No. I just did not think to take a violin when I left my home, and it has not been a priority since.”

“Fair enough.”

“I did not even seek this one out,” Hanzo continues, gesturing lightly with the instrument. “I happened to find it while we were performing recon for our last mission. It was being sold cheaply out of a pawn shop, so I . . .”

He trails off, and McCree is surprised to note what looks like an embarrassed grimace on his face. Is he ashamed to admit that he missed something so mundane as playing an instrument?

Hanzo gives a short shake of his head and kneels to place the violin back in its case. “In any case,” he says shortly, “yes, I have known how to play for some time.”

“You ever think of playin’ for the team? I’ve been known to get out my guitar here and there, and Lucio’s always talking about--”

“I do not  _ perform _ ,” Hanzo interrupts curtly. McCree holds up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Just askin’. I’m not gonna make you.”

The tense line of Hanzo’s shoulders relaxes. He clasps the violin case shut and stands again. “In any case,” he says, “I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone about this.”

“About you . . . playin’ the violin?”

“It is private.”

McCree doesn’t understand, but he shrugs. “Alright, sure thing. Might wanna be careful, though, ‘cause if I heard you, someone else is gonna catch on.”

Hanzo grimaces again. “I will keep that in mind. Thank you for your kind words, McCree. Good night.”

He departs without another word. McCree watches him go, while the last gentle bars of Hanzo’s song echo in his ears.

 

\--

 

“What is that?” Mei asks.

McCree looks up from his side of the table, where he has Peacekeeper in pieces laid out on a towel. “What’s what?” he asks, glancing down at the spring in his hand.

“That song you were humming. It’s nice.”

McCree was not aware he had been humming aloud, but he knows what song it must have been. “Oh, just somethin’ I heard the other day,” he says with a shrug. “Dunno the name.”

It’s been four days, but that music that Hanzo played keeps coming back to him. He has not heard that violin since, nor has Hanzo even indicated that the event actually occurred. It feels like it was a dream, and McCree might be tempted to dismiss it as such if he weren’t so certain of the music he heard.

“Well, it’s nice,” Mei concludes. She smiles as she takes a soft rag to Snowball, polishing away a small scuff on the droid’s chassis. Snowball trills a series of high-pitched notes, mimicking the song that McCree was humming in its own electronic voice. Mei giggles. “I think he likes it, too.”

“Yeah? Didn’t know he was real into music.”

“I had a teammate in Antarctica who liked heavy metal. Snowball seemed like that the best.” When Mei finishes, Snowball cheers and leaps up from her hand on its tiny jets, nuzzling up against Mei’s cheek like an affectionate cat.

“I’ll be damned,” McCree chuckles. He finishes cleaning the spring and sets it aside with the rest of his dismantled gun. He’s always found the process of cleaning his gun relaxing, and in the last couple of days, he’s definitely needed a few more distractions. 

“Yes, it was very surprising to--” Mei cuts herself off, then says in a bright tone, “Oh, hello Hanzo!”

McCree snaps his head up to see Hanzo standing in the doorway. He has his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, and he’s back in his standard  _ gi _ , the sleeve down off his shoulder and tied into his sash. On his way to a mission, most likely. Back when he first started with Overwatch, Hanzo had dressed equally in his older  _ gis _ and his more modern outfits; nowadays, he primarily wears the former for work, likely out of habit more than anything else. It’s a subtle change, but one McCree has noticed nonetheless.

McCree allows himself just a quick glance at Hanzo’s exposed chest and shoulder while he can.

“Greetings,” Hanzo says. “Have you seen Genji? We were supposed to meet before I leave.”

“No, sorry,” Mei replies apologetically. 

Hanzo’s gaze slides expectantly to McCree. McCree tips back his hat. “Can’t say I have, partner,” he replies. “Sure he’s around here somewhere, though. Somethin’ up?”

“No, I just wished to speak with him.” Hanzo huffs. “He is thirty-five years old, and yet I still can never find him when I need him.”

“That’s younger siblings for you. I don’t think they grow out of it no matter what.”

Hanzo chuckles once. “Perhaps not. Well, I will look elsewhere. Thank you.”

McCree stares after Hanzo as he walks away. He spends a moment admiring the sculpted muscles in Hanzo’s back, admittedly, but moreso than that, he is struck by the disparity between this man and the one he witnessed the other day. 

“Oh, you have it bad,” Mei says. 

McCree starts out of his reverie and turns an incredulous look on Mei. “What?”

“You like him,” Mei says with a giggle. “You gave him the biggest puppy eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking.”

McCree can feel himself flush. He turns his attention back to his gun, quickly reassembling the pieces to look busy. “I may have a bit of a soft spot for him,” he admits grudgingly. 

“‘A bit’? You can’t lie to me, Jesse McCree. You don’t do anything ‘a bit’.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I like ‘im more than a bit. Happy?”

Mei giggles again. “Yes. Why don’t you ask him out? It’s not like you to hide something like that.”

“It ain’t that easy.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t!”

“Oh, Jesse,” Mei sighs, smiling as she drops her chin into her hand. “You really do have it bad.”

McCree grumbles in lieu of a proper answer. He presses the chamber of his gun into place and gives it a spin, listening to it click gently. “To be real honest,” he eventually says, “it wouldn’t be that bad, but something just got me thinkin’ about it recently.”

Mei sits up, interested. “What do you mean?”  
“About Hanzo. It’s just got me spinnin’ more than usual.” McCree sets down his gun on the table, hesitating. “He’d kill me if he found out I told you, so don’t go spreadin’ it around, but--that song you asked me about? I heard it from Hanzo last week. He plays the violin in secret, and I found him out. That’s when I heard it.”

“Oh my gosh!” Mei gasps, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty good, too. Guess he started learning when he was a kid.”

“Wow. I never would have guessed.” Mei tilts her head a little, questioning. “But what does that have to do with . . . ?”

McCree shrugs helplessly. “I dunno!” he replies. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it since it happened. I don’t know why. I mean, he’s good at it, and I’m not gonna lie, he looked good playing, but that shouldn’t mean anything.” 

He huffs and slouches back in his chair, glaring halfheartedly at the wall over Mei’s shoulder. “I dunno,” he says again. “It was just so different from what I expected. He’s never struck me as a guy to do something like that just for fun. It’s like . . . a whole different side of him, I guess.”

He slides his gaze back to Mei, who is smiling widely and making a poor effort to hide it behind her hands. “Oh, you stop that,” he says, tossing his gun-cleaning rag in her direction. Mei giggles and bats it away, but mercifully lets the subject drop.

Not that it stops McCree from thinking about it, anyway.

 

\--

 

“You play as well?”

McCree slaps his hand over the guitar strings, startled by Hanzo’s voice behind him. 

Hanzo laughs. “My apologies. I saw you out here on my way back from the range.”

That, McCree concedes, was probably to be expected, since he chose to play out on the skybridge in full view of anyone walking by. He relaxes, and releases the strings to strum them instead. “A little,” he says in response to Hanzo’s earlier statement. “Ain’t a trained musician like you, but I play a little here and there.”

“I suppose that is fitting for a cowboy.” 

McCree laughs. “Yeah, can’t say that wasn’t part of the appeal when I was younger.”

He plucks out a short melody, letting the notes ring out into the evening air. Hanzo remains standing, shuffling slightly in place, until McCree says, “Why don’t you have a seat there, partner?” Then Hanzo does sit, stiffly crossing his legs beside McCree. 

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. McCree puffs on his cigarillo and strums a few lazy chords to the rhythm of an old classic rock song of which he no longer remembers the name. He’s always viewed his guitar as a casual hobby, something to fill the time on those days when he was holding still for hours on end. Unlike Hanzo, who was apparently trained since he was a child, no doubt with the finest tutors that  _ yakuza _ money could buy. He wonders how playing violin even factors into running a massive crime empire or being a world-class assassin. Maybe it was just a rich-people thing. 

He voices the thought to Hanzo, who laughs. “I suppose it was not necessary, no,” he admits. “But we were the master’s children. We were expected to be well-rounded in all subjects. Mathematics, language, fighting, business, and even the arts.”

“Damn. And I thought high school was a pain in the ass.”

“It was . . . difficult, yes. But it was what was expected of us. And I enjoyed it, to a point. I always enjoyed learning new skills.”

“And provin’ you were better than everyone else at ‘em, right?” Hanzo casts a disapproving look at McCree, but McCree just laughs and reaches over to smack Hanzo playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that, you know you got an ego the size of the moon.” He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, “Not that it ain’t well-deserved, but nonetheless.”

“And you are better?”

McCree pointedly looks back down at his guitar, earning a chuckle from Hanzo. He plucks out a few more notes, what he remembers of an old solo. 

“What was your family like?” Hanzo asks suddenly. 

“My family?” 

“Yes. I have told you of mine many times, and you know Genji, but I realized I know nothing about yours.”

McCree crosses his arms on top of the guitar and leans back against a crate, thinking. “Well, they were alright,” he says. “Parents weren’t perfect, but they were good folk. Siblings were right pains in the ass when we were kids, but that’s what you’d expect.”

“You have siblings?”

“Yeah. Brother and a sister. Marco and Sylvia. Both younger than me by a couple years.”

“And your family, do they know what you do?”

McCree shrugs a shoulder. “Not really. Parents are dead. Siblings and I weren’t real close after I went to the Deadlocks.”

“Oh. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s fine.” McCree shrugs again. “But I grew up alright. Well, until I ran out on ‘em, but that wasn’t their fault. And I made up with Mamá before she went.”

Hanzo nods once, as though McCree had confirmed something for him. “That is good,” he says. “I . . . often have difficulty understanding such family dynamics, given my own.”

“I’ll bet. There wasn’t a whole lotta crime and brainwashin’ in my family.”

Hanzo huffs a laugh. “My family was unusual that way, yes.”

“Well. Every family’s got their stuff.”

They lapse back into a companionable quiet. McCree hums the melody to another old favorite as he strums the chords on his guitar. He feels surprisingly comfortable here, out in the evening with Hanzo by his side. It feels almost romantic; the only thing that could make it better would be if it actually  _ were _ . If he could reach over and take Hanzo’s hand, or draw Hanzo up against his side, or lean over his guitar for a kiss--that would make the evening complete. It’s not something he expects any time soon, but the fantasy still makes something, not at all unpleasant, tighten in his gut. 

He hazards a glance over at Hanzo and thinks, at first, that Hanzo is either meditating or has straight up fallen asleep. He is sitting completely still, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap, a look of peace and contentment on his face. The sight is so soft and sweet that it makes McCree falter on the guitar, strumming a note with his finger halfway off the fret and making an unpleasant buzzing sound. Hanzo snaps open his eyes and immediately looks in McCree’s direction. 

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Oh, uh. No. Just looked like you were falling asleep or somethin’.”

Hanzo blinks. “Oh, no. I was just listening.” He flushes slightly, as though he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. McCree is surprised and pleased by the knowledge that Hanzo feels so relaxed around him. “It was--good.”

That not-unpleasant-something does a little whirl in McCree’s belly. “Well, thank ya kindly,” he says, “though I bet it doesn’t compare to your playin’.”

“It is different, but no less appealing. Please, continue.”

Pleased, McCree puts his fingers back to the frets and launches back into the song. 

They stay out for another half-hour or so, McCree playing his guitar while Hanzo listens on. They share a few more snippets of conversation, but for the most part, it is a quiet meeting, enjoying each other’s company without the need to fill the silence. It feels good, easy, like something they’ve done a hundred times before. When they finally do part, McCree feels light with the warm contentment smouldering in his chest.

Later that evening, as McCree leans out his bedroom window with another cigarillo, he can hear the faint sound of the violin again. It plays a melody that sounds rather like something he played for Hanzo perhaps an hour before. 

McCree smiles around a mouthful of smoke, and envisions what Hanzo’s handsome face must look like as he plays something that McCree taught him. 

 

\--

 

Over the next couple of weeks, McCree catches Hanzo with the violin a number of times. It is always in the evening and somewhere outdoors, usually among the cliffs or near the outer edges of the Watchpoint but always away from the team. Hanzo tends to be a secretive sort, so McCree never does know precisely when he might hear the music, but he feels attuned to it nonetheless: once he is made aware that Hanzo is playing, he is unable to ignore it. 

Most days, McCree lets Hanzo have his privacy. He’ll to Hanzo play from a distance, while he stands out on the skybridge or in the privacy of his room with the window open and has a cigarillo. Hanzo plays a wide variety of pieces, some covers that even McCree recognizes and others that he wouldn’t be able to identify with a gun to his head. All of them seem to be nothing less than perfection, and McCree is immediately enraptured every time. He falls asleep to the sound of the violin drifting through his window on one particular night, and can’t remember ever sleeping so well before that. 

A couple of times, McCree ventures out to find Hanzo again, unable to resist the allure of seeing Hanzo play, if only for a moment or two. On those nights, Hanzo always stops playing as soon as he is aware of McCree’s presence--but he never tells McCree to stop. Instead, he greets McCree with a mild reprimand and a smile, and from there they will talk, or head to the shooting range for one of their many bets, or get drinks and reminisce until the late hours of the night.

It’s good. Perhaps too much so. 

McCree suspects he should probably be more wary of what he’s doing, of getting in over his head. But, hell, what’s he going to do, shove off his friend completely just because he likes hearing him play a violin a little too much? The thought of that alone is too much. 

And besides, there’s . . .  _ something _ . Something that makes him think that maybe he’s not entirely alone in these not-entirely-platonic feelings. He has no way to quantify it for certain; it’s a subtle thing, more of an overall intuition than anything concrete. Something in the way Hanzo smiles, a certain softness to it, and the way his gaze seems to linger on McCree at times. His relative comfort with McCree despite keeping the rest of the team at a relative distance. The mere fact he allows McCree to watch him with the violin at all, when it is still a well-kept secret from the rest.

Maybe he’s just being too hopeful and lovesick. But McCree’s had enough disappointments and pessimism to last him a lifetime. He’ll let himself have this for a little while.

 

\--

 

They are sent out to a mission together a little over two weeks after the first night: an interception of a Talon strike team headed for Oasis. Winston doesn’t anticipate much trouble, and it’s a quiet night for the most part--so when a backup Talon team gets the drop on them while they’re still watching the first, they’re not that well-prepared.

A surprised Overwatch is still a damn good team. There’s a reason the old agents were brought on in the first place, and the new ones--well, they’re no pushovers, either. 

Tracer’s gone in a flash, only to reappear immediately behind the Talon attackers with a bomb at the ready that sends them scattering. McCree has his gun out faster than they can blink, and shoots down one of the soldiers and nicks another before ducking for cover. Winston’s shield pops into view, a shimmering dome of hard-light hexagons curving above their heads, and two arrows, one right after the other, streak just over the top of the shield and find their marks in Talon chests. Mercy lingers, staff in one hand and pistol in the other, ready for whatever the firefight brings. 

“The first team’s been alerted. Looks like they’re moving ahead,” Winston says, glancing at a display on a wrist module. “Who knows if they’re going to go after their target or run. We have to catch them now!”

As McCree’s getting ready to sprint, determined that their mission not be in vain, he hears Hanzo shout, “McCree, behind--” before being cut off by two rapid shots from a pulse rifle. 

It takes a fraction of a second, but then he feels it: the vicious, burning pain of plasma rounds sinking deep into his flank. McCree stumbles and hits the ground, skidding another foot with his momentum. He distantly hears shouts of shock and fear around him and through his earpiece, but he can’t make out any of the words out of his own pained swears.

“Shit, shit,  _ shit _ ,” he hisses, reaching to grab at the wound with his hand. He can feel the heat of them radiating from his skin. “Fuck, guys, I’m down, they--” 

“McCree has taken two hits,” interrupts Hanzo’s voice, and suddenly Hanzo is kneeling beside him. There is a look on his face that McCree’s never seen before: one of utter fear. Despite this, Hanzo’s voice is perfectly even as he continues, “Lower left of his back, bleeding heavily. I do not think he can continue. Mercy--”

“I am here,” Angela cuts in. “Don’t move, McCree. I’m taking care of you.”

“Allow me to help. You cannot take him back alone.” 

McCree’s grasp on consciousness is quickly slipping. He grimaces as a fresh wave of pain rolls over him, but manages to say through gritted teeth, “No, don’t hang over me. You gotta go help the others finish up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Winston is already preparing our extraction. I will not leave you,” Hanzo says fiercely, brooking no further argument.

“Here, Hanzo, hold this over the bleeding, then help me move him onto his side,” Mercy says. McCree can’t see what Mercy gives to Hanzo, but a moment later he feels callused fingers tug the back of his shirt out of his pants and press a square of soft gauze to his wounds. 

“You will be okay, McCree,” Hanzo says quietly, and that is the last thing McCree remembers in full.

He ends up on the shuttle, eventually, stretched out on a transport cot. The flight passes in a blur of noise and silhouettes as McCree drifts in and out of consciousness. Different team members pass by his cot, saying things he can’t understand. The only constant is someone’s hand on his right arm, resting around the thickest part of the muscle there and gripping tight, a constant spot of warmth in the haze of reality. When it finally occurs to him to try to get a good look at whoever’s there, it only takes him turning his head a few degrees to be overwhelmed by dizziness, then unconsciousness.

He wakes again in the medbay a couple of hours later, sore and exhausted but nonetheless alive. Angela flits about over his bed for a few minutes, checking vitals, resetting bionic emitters, lifting and re-taping bandages. “You need to be more careful,” she admonishes gently. 

“No offense, Angie, but when’s that ever stopped me before?”

“Never, but it’s why I keep reminding you.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and swats him on the shoulder. “Anyway, it looks like you should recover well. You lost a good amount of blood, but the wound itself was clean and should heal without too much problem. I’ll keep you here for a day or two with the biotic fields and we’ll decide what to do from there.”

“Sure thing. Do me a favor before you walk off? Open that window for me. Hate how stiflin’ this place gets.”

Angela gives him a slightly odd look, but does as bidden, sliding the window near McCree’s bed halfway open before departing for her office. Cool nighttime air drifts through the window, which feels good against McCree’s heated skin but is not the real reason he wanted it open. 

After a half-hour or so, he hears the sound of Hanzo’s violin from outside, just as he had hoped. Hanzo plays a few scales, pausing between to tweak the tuning. McCree sinks back into the bed, finding even the sound of Hanzo warming up to be relaxing. He would rather have Hanzo here beside him, have Hanzo’s hands on him again, but this will have to do instead. 

But when Hanzo starts playing properly, McCree quickly realizes it is something different. This isn’t a piece he recognizes, nor does it sound anything like McCree has heard before. Hanzo’s playing runs the gamut from serene pieces, with airy notes and feather-light touches on the strings, to energetic, bright songs with vivid crescendos and dizzyingly rapid measures. Tonight, however, it is none of those things. 

The music is sharp, jabbing, as though every note is bowed with the force of Hanzo’s entire strength behind it. It is startlingly loud then suddenly quiet, going between dynamics with none of the usual finesse. The bow squeals against the strings more than once, the poorly-bowed mistakes of a frustrated novice. If McCree had to put a word to it, he’d say it sounded downright angry.

Not just angry. Bitter. Despondent, perhaps, in the way that overwhelms a man and can only be expressed in rage. 

After five minutes or so, the violin screeches one last violent note, then stops abruptly. It does not continue. 

McCree listens to this, and wonders what caused Hanzo to feel this way--then glances down at himself, clad in a medical gown, and wonders if he knows the answer. 

 

\--

 

The next day, McCree’s given the all-clear from Angela, although he’s made to promise to come back the next three days to check on his wound. He hastily agrees, eager to leave and go meet someone else. 

McCree finds Hanzo again on the same cliffside as before. Hanzo is facing the sea, his back to McCree and his violin tucked under his chin. He seems swept up in his playing, fingers flying over the violin’s neck in a bright, energetic melody. McCree deliberately kicks his heel against the ground to jingle his spurs, and that is enough to alert Hanzo to his presence.

“Hey,” he says as Hanzo turns around. “Thought I’d find you up here again.”

“McCree. You do realize I come here for privacy,” Hanzo says, without any real admonishment to his tone.

McCree shrugs. “Mind if I sit in?”

“You wish to listen to me play?”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, that is.”

This is not something Hanzo has actively allowed before. McCree holds his breath as he awaits his answer. 

Finally, Hanzo says, “I . . . suppose that is alright.” He gestures beside himself with the bow, and McCree takes a seat, allowing his legs to dangle over the cliff’s edge. He smiles up at Hanzo, and Hanzo gives a short, uncomfortable nod. At first, McCree thinks that Hanzo might rescind permission, but instead Hanzo lifts the violin and tucks it under his chin. He rests the bow against the strings, pauses, and then begins to play. 

He has chosen to restart the piece he was playing when McCree interrupted, but the beginning is different: slower, a prelude building up to what will come. Still, the melody is bright, played in a major key, something that one might not expect Hanzo to enjoy. McCree leans back on his hands and bobs his head slightly to the tune, letting himself get caught up in the music. 

The piece is familiar, though McCree couldn’t begin to tell where he might have heard it before. It reminds him somehow of years past: moments of his childhood when he was young and carefree before his father died, those early years of Blackwatch when he was bright and excited and finally felt at  _ home _ . There are more recent memories, too: the joy of being back in something bigger than him, the silly card games and conversations with his old friends, and most of all, these sweet, stolen moments with Hanzo, which McCree will always hold close to his heart even if they mean nothing in the long run.

McCree looks up at his companion. Hanzo is swept up in the music now, perhaps completely unaware that he still has company. The bow dances across the strings in a series of jaunty notes, and Hanzo’s fingers fly across the fingerboard in complete harmony with the movements. His expression is one of complete focus, though he looks no less pleased for all his concentration.  McCree can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the subject of that attention, and the thought causes an ache to bloom in his chest.

When he is finished, Hanzo lowers the violin and bow to his sides, but does not open his eyes. He seems almost nervous, by the faint wrinkle between his brows. McCree has the sudden urge to kiss that spot. 

“That was good,” he says instead. “Just like always.”

Hanzo tries not to smile, McCree can tell, but he cannot hide the pleased look on his face. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “It is one of my favorite pieces.”

“Yeah?”

“Admittedly, it is not so much its own piece as it is a cover of a game soundtrack.” Hanzo laughs self-consciously. “But I always enjoyed that kind of music when I was younger, and it amused Genji.”

“Playin’ video games  _ and _ music? Aren’t you just full of surprises.” 

Hanzo rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I do have interests, McCree.”

“Well, yeah, but I just thought they were all fightin’ and drinkin’.”

“Among others, yes.”

McCree laughs aloud at this. After a moment, so does Hanzo, and his laughter is deep and rich, rumbling from his chest in a way that sends a spark down McCree’s spine. When their eyes meet again, there is a something in Hanzo’s expression that makes McCree pause. It is faint--a softness in his eyes, an easiness to his smile--but it is undeniably there.

McCree gets to his feet and dusts his hands off on the front of his pants. The action puts him unexpectedly close to Hanzo, perhaps a foot of space between them. Neither of them move. 

McCree takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, considering his next words. His common sense is telling him to back off now, before he makes a mistake, but he finds it difficult to obey. Call it intuition, or maybe just stupid hope, but there is something in this moment that pulls him forward, and he is helpless to do anything but obey. 

“Listen,” he says. “I’ve been . . . thinkin’ about some stuff recently.”

“Is that so. Are you alright?”

McCree shrugs in feigned nonchalance. He steps closer, into Hanzo’s space, too close for standard boundaries but far enough that, if he has to, he can backpedal. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just--I’ve been having some thoughts.”

He pauses for a moment. Hanzo stares up at him, patient and inscrutable. “About what?” he asks, his tone carefully light.

“Well. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a good friend. But seein’ this side of you over the last couple weeks has really been somethin’ else.”

Hanzo’s brow crinkles with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just . . . good. I like it.” McCree hesitates for the briefest second, making sure he is looking straight into Hanzo’s eyes. His heart is pounding, but his voice does not waver as he finishes, “I like  _ you. _ ”

Hanzo inhales a sharp, sudden breath. His lips part as though to speak, and though McCree’s eye is drawn down to the movement, Hanzo does not say anything. McCree continues on before he can lose his nerve. “And you know, I’ve been sweet on you for a little while now, but it wasn’t until I got to see you play that I really thought there was anything to it.”

Hanzo swallows. McCree glances down to the bob of his throat in his pale neck. “I did not realize,” Hanzo says, strained. 

“Well, no, you weren’t meant to. Kept it to myself, after all.” 

Hanzo gives a short nod, a quick jerk of his chin in acknowledgement, but says nothing else. McCree waits, expecting to be told off (wildly hoping for the opposite), but receives no reprimand. Hanzo seems to be waiting for something, too, though McCree couldn’t guess what. For a moment, they are locked in stasis together, uncertain of each other and themselves. 

McCree sucks in a breath. He dips his head, and it does not take much at all for their lips to brush.

Hanzo accepts the kiss, face tilted up to receive it, but he is perfectly still. His arms hanging at his sides with the violin and bow still in hand, and he is unmoving. McCree only kisses him once, just long enough to feel the curves of Hanzo’s lips against his own before he pulls back.

“Was that alright?” he asks, and he can hear the rough, anxious timber of his own voice.

Hanzo’s eyes flutter open slowly, and he fixes his gaze on McCree. After a moment, he carefully transfers the bow in his right hand to his left. He drops both with surprising carelessness into the instrument case at his feet, and the bow bounces off the case’s edge and onto the ground. Then he straightens, takes the front of McCree’s  _ serape _ in both hands and pulls him down into another kiss.

Equal parts relief and need wash over McCree, leaving him all but boneless as he melts into the kiss. He loses track of time entirely as they stand there at the cliff’s edge, exchanging sweet, needy kisses. The cool night air sweeps between their bodies, drawing them instinctively closer. Hanzo presses up against his chest, and McCree shivers for a reason completely unrelated to the cold.

Then McCree shifts, and he knocks his boot against the violin case on the ground. The violin clatters within the case, startling them both. 

“Shit, sorry--” McCree says, looking down to assess the damage. He expects Hanzo to be annoyed, but instead, Hanzo laughs softly. 

“It will survive,” he says. He strokes a thumb down the side of McCree’s neck (when had his hand gotten there?) and smiles, a little shy. McCree grins back helplessly, feeling full to bursting with newfound joy and affection.

“Tell me,” Hanzo says after a moment. “Was it really the violin that attracted you to me? It is only a hobby, hardly as impressive as anything else I have done.”

McCree chuckles softly. “You don’t know how good you look when you’re playin’,” he says, and Hanzo tilts his head as though to concede the point. “But no. That ain’t all of it, not by a long shot.” 

At Hanzo’s curious gaze, McCree gives another laugh, nervous. “I mean--there’s a lot to like about ya. The violin just sort of . . . helped it all along. Kinda the last nail in the coffin that was me fallin’ for you.”

Hanzo’s eyes widen at this, and McCree fears he has already overstepped the boundaries of this tenuous new thing. But Hanzo smiles again, and pulls McCree into another deep kiss, and McCree stops worrying at all. 


End file.
